their father speak the sea.
26.
Eeona had pinched and managed to buy a burro for traveling in style to market and Mass. This one was smaller and more stubborn than the almost grand beast the Bradshaws had owned. The ass came with the name Nelson. Eeona, always thinking that a given name had great importance, didn’t change the name even though she found it frivolous. To go to Mrs. Lovernkrandt’s for tea, Eeona tied thin cerulean ribbons around Nelson’s ears, so they might arrive in class. The donkey’s ribbons matched Eeona’s dress. But then there at the Lovernkrandt gate she saw an actual automobile parked like a sphinx. Sure, she’d seen them, the motorized donkeys, carrying their masters up and down Main Street. But she had never been so close to one before. It seemed a dangerous omen. And it was.
As she entered the parlor, Eeona saw immediately that this Lovernkrandt woman was sitting in her mother’s rocking chair. Eeona hadn’t sold the chair, but had simply left it at Villa by the Sea. And now here it was. If Liva had the rocking chair, perhaps she had other Villa by the Sea pieces. Perhaps all the fine women of the island had a signature piece of the home that should have been Eeona’s now molded into their own. Eeona, of course, was no longer privy to the goings-on of the high-bred women and their families.
Watching this woman, her mongoose face and pasty complexion, sitting in a prized part of Villa by the Sea, Eeona had the vulgar urge to loosen her hair, as if she were drawing a sword. But she remained mindful that this woman was to be her benefactor.
Mrs. Lovernkrandt did not take out her fur coat for Eeona, but she spoke of her travels. The woman even spoke, imagine, of Anegada, where part of her people had been from generations ago. Eeona revealed nothingof her own old adventure on the atoll. Though, if we are being honest, everyone knew of Eeona’s failure with the young Frenchman.
“They are so small-island-thinking there,” Mrs. Lovernkrandt said of the atoll. “But . . .” And now she smiled and looked out the window just over her shoulder. “I can see my grandfather now, knee-deep in the ocean. The sun is setting behind him and he is just a silhouette with a machete, chopping a lobster into pieces.” She sighed. “Backwards and beautiful. But not New York City. The city is just ugly and forwards.” New York had become Liva’s most frequent excursion. “The music, the art, the theater—it all rages on despite the depressive state of things,” she said, seeming to forget that Eeona’s mother had been to America but returned just to die. Instead, Mrs. Lovernkrandt leaned forward with her eyes wide open. “And some of the art is by the American Negro.”
Mrs. Lovernkrandt, a mulattress herself, was generally of a nutmeg color. When she returned from New York, she was very pale, as though there were milk under her skin instead of blood. She looked almost like a white woman. And truth be told, her Danish husband had told the Americans that his wife was of Portuguese descent in order to dampen any Negroid suspicions. Now Mrs. Lovernkrandt always wore a hat when outside and she always sought the shade.
Sitting in her parlor with Eeona, Mrs. Lovernkrandt seemed conspiratorial. “Your mother, rest her in her grave, had always wanted to see the newest fashions.”
Well, perhaps Antoinette had seen them. Perhaps the Widow Bradshaw had touched and smelled it all. But it didn’t matter, because that happened far away from here and so we can’t be sure. Instead, Liva Lovernkrandt spoke about the black men scatting on stage. She had seen black women dancing like Africans, which, truth be said, was quite similar to how everyone danced on the island.
“American Negroes,” she said, with awe, as though these were a newbreed of people. Which, in a way, they were. Just as we were. Indeed, we were now a version of them.
Eeona held her back stiff and straight, and this severity, as it
26.
Eeona had pinched and managed to buy a burro for traveling in style to market and Mass. This one was smaller and more stubborn than the almost grand beast the Bradshaws had owned. The ass came with the name Nelson. Eeona, always thinking that a given name had great importance, didn’t change the name even though she found it frivolous. To go to Mrs. Lovernkrandt’s for tea, Eeona tied thin cerulean ribbons around Nelson’s ears, so they might arrive in class. The donkey’s ribbons matched Eeona’s dress. But then there at the Lovernkrandt gate she saw an actual automobile parked like a sphinx. Sure, she’d seen them, the motorized donkeys, carrying their masters up and down Main Street. But she had never been so close to one before. It seemed a dangerous omen. And it was.
As she entered the parlor, Eeona saw immediately that this Lovernkrandt woman was sitting in her mother’s rocking chair. Eeona hadn’t sold the chair, but had simply left it at Villa by the Sea. And now here it was. If Liva had the rocking chair, perhaps she had other Villa by the Sea pieces. Perhaps all the fine women of the island had a signature piece of the home that should have been Eeona’s now molded into their own. Eeona, of course, was no longer privy to the goings-on of the high-bred women and their families.
Watching this woman, her mongoose face and pasty complexion, sitting in a prized part of Villa by the Sea, Eeona had the vulgar urge to loosen her hair, as if she were drawing a sword. But she remained mindful that this woman was to be her benefactor.
Mrs. Lovernkrandt did not take out her fur coat for Eeona, but she spoke of her travels. The woman even spoke, imagine, of Anegada, where part of her people had been from generations ago. Eeona revealed nothingof her own old adventure on the atoll. Though, if we are being honest, everyone knew of Eeona’s failure with the young Frenchman.
“They are so small-island-thinking there,” Mrs. Lovernkrandt said of the atoll. “But . . .” And now she smiled and looked out the window just over her shoulder. “I can see my grandfather now, knee-deep in the ocean. The sun is setting behind him and he is just a silhouette with a machete, chopping a lobster into pieces.” She sighed. “Backwards and beautiful. But not New York City. The city is just ugly and forwards.” New York had become Liva’s most frequent excursion. “The music, the art, the theater—it all rages on despite the depressive state of things,” she said, seeming to forget that Eeona’s mother had been to America but returned just to die. Instead, Mrs. Lovernkrandt leaned forward with her eyes wide open. “And some of the art is by the American Negro.”
Mrs. Lovernkrandt, a mulattress herself, was generally of a nutmeg color. When she returned from New York, she was very pale, as though there were milk under her skin instead of blood. She looked almost like a white woman. And truth be told, her Danish husband had told the Americans that his wife was of Portuguese descent in order to dampen any Negroid suspicions. Now Mrs. Lovernkrandt always wore a hat when outside and she always sought the shade.
Sitting in her parlor with Eeona, Mrs. Lovernkrandt seemed conspiratorial. “Your mother, rest her in her grave, had always wanted to see the newest fashions.”
Well, perhaps Antoinette had seen them. Perhaps the Widow Bradshaw had touched and smelled it all. But it didn’t matter, because that happened far away from here and so we can’t be sure. Instead, Liva Lovernkrandt spoke about the black men scatting on stage. She had seen black women dancing like Africans, which, truth be said, was quite similar to how everyone danced on the island.
“American Negroes,” she said, with awe, as though these were a newbreed of people. Which, in a way, they were. Just as we were. Indeed, we were now a version of them.
Eeona held her back stiff and straight, and this severity, as it
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